


We’ll Be a Fine Line

by hockies



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Chicago Blackhawks, Edging, Light D/s, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Kink, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21826837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hockies/pseuds/hockies
Summary: “Shower again.” Alex says, popping the top off his bottle and taking a long pull. He stares Dylan down while he does it, and fuck. That's not playing fair.“Why?” Dylan asks, because fuck, they need to talk about whatever is happening here.“Because I told you to.”*******
Relationships: Alex DeBrincat/Dylan Strome
Comments: 9
Kudos: 187





	We’ll Be a Fine Line

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Linnie, who told me that Alex Debrincat didn’t have a dominant bone in his body. Because, babe... pale, jittery, pliant Dylan Strome would turn on anyone’s dominant instincts. You should hear him beg!

_____

Dylan knows he should take it to his room, he’s not completely disgusting. But he and Alex aren’t in different places very often and he figures it’s probably okay to touch, just a little, just through his pants.

He’s binging Fleabag and that Hot Priest just… it’s a lot, that’s all. It’s completely innocent when he lets his hand drift down to palm his dick through his pants. Just a comfort thing, Dylan snorts. God, he’s such an idiot.

The door to their apartment bangs open and Ralph bounds in, Alex right behind him.

Dylan yanks his hand up but he knows it’s not fast enough. His breathing is fast and harsh, his face flaming hot, and he knows that he’s been caught.

He knows it even without the way Alex stutters to a halt in the doorway, the way his eyes get wide, just for a second, and fuck, Dylan is mortified.

“I’ll just,” Dylan says, gesturing to his room. He’s fully ready to slink off and lock his door behind him.

“You’re gonna go finish up in your room?” Alex asks, mockingly, but he’s smiling kindly.

“Fuck,” Dylan says, miserable. “Yes.”

“No.” Alex says, firm. He crosses his arms as he says it.

Dylan feels his mouth drop open.

“No?” he asks, incredulous, because surely he can’t mean…

“No. You’re not going to do that tonight. We’re gonna watch a movie.”

The only thing that breaks the silence is the tiny gasp that slips from Dylan’s lips before he can reel it in.

When they get situated, Dylan is warm and comfortable, tucked against Alex’s side. When he thinks about it, he can feel the dull ache of his erection, but it’s easy to ignore it and focus on how cosy Alex is, his steady breathing.

By the time the credits roll, Dylan is dozing. He sits up when Alex moves to reach the remote.

“Tired?” Alex asks. He’s scrolling through Netflix, not really looking in Dylan’s direction.

“Bed time,” Alex says, nodding.

“Ok,” Dylan says.

“And Dylan,” Alex says, and Dylan pauses, looks back. His eyes lock with Alex’s, and he sees something cautious in them. “Don’t touch yourself. Go to sleep.”

Dylan stumbles into his room and closes the door behind himself. It clicks shut and he presses back against it, heart beating in his chest.

Between his legs, his erection stands. It’d be so easy to reach down and finish himself off, and god, he wants to. Fucking, fuck, he doesn’t have to listen to fucking Alex, it’s not like... 

Squeezing his eyes shut, he drops his head back against the door. Fuck. He’s not going to.

Alex said he couldn’t.

Dylan goes to bed, cock untouched, and distracts himself thinking about line drills until he falls asleep.

++++++

It’s always been a thing, since before Dylan can even remember. When he’s around Alex, he just sort of… settles.

His coaches have always known it. In Erie, they were shoved onto the same line, in the same drills, Dylan’s jittery nerves smoothing over into focus whenever he looked over and saw Alex working hard beside him.

It took awhile for Dylan to recognize that it was because of Alex, that having him around grounded him in a way other things didn’t. Alex’s smile would make Dylan’s anxiety subside, his cranky morning moods would make Dylan forget his own.

“He’s a good kid,” Dylan’s mother would say, fondly, “he’s good for you.”

Later, when he’d finally gotten traded to Chicago, it was as though Alex was coming through for him again. It was Alex he’d called first, Alex who’d picked him at O’Hare, Alex who’d insisted he move in.

He’s got hockey back in his life now. His feet under him. He’s skating well, setting up motherfucking Patrick Kane, putting up points…

And when he turns his head, on the couch, on the bench, on the ice, there’s Alex.

Dylan feels like he can finally breathe again in Chicago. And he knows it’s not entirely because of Alex, he’s not a total idiot, but he can’t quite shake the feeling that it maybe is, kind of. Shut up.

++++++

When Dylan’s blinks awake the next morning it takes him a few moments to remember why he’d had such a hard time falling asleep the night before. Why he’d lay there in his bed, eyes squeezed shut and heart hammering against his rib cage.

He can feel the heat in his cheeks as he remembers, suddenly, Alex’s knowing chuckle and his orders for Dylan not to touch himself.

And he’s instantly hard again. He wonders what the rules are, and whether the ban on jacking off extends through the night and into the morning.

The most distressing thing, Dylan thinks, choking out a desperate laugh, is that he’s not sure if he hopes it does or not. Fuck, yup. He’s still hard, alright. God damn it.

Deciding that the best way to curb this train of thought is to get out of bed and start the day, Dylan throws his door open and stumbles to the kitchen.

Alex is there already, pouring himself a mug of freshly made coffee from a pot on the counter.

“Morning,” Dylan manages, through a yawn. Tries his best to sound casual. The yawn helps.

“Morning, Stromer,” Alex says, perching himself on a stool and setting his mug down in front of him. Dylan watches Alex’s eyes find his, through the curls of steam coming from his coffee. Dylan feels more than sees Alex’s gaze roam over him, down his thin, white tee, over the bulge in the well-worn, flannel sleep pants he’s yanked on before stumbling out of his room. Alex takes him in slowly, every inch of him, and Dylan’s face flushes, remembering what Alex is probably thinking about. Last night.

And Dylan, well. He stands there and lets him look.

Alex cocks his head to the side a bit, as if he’s considering something. Dylan is very familiar with the gleam in his eyes. He’s got an idea.

Not knowing whether he’s going to like that idea or not, well, that’s a feeling Dylan knows in his guts.

The way it gets him worked up, that’s new.

Because before, the mischief in Alex’s smile meant pranks or skipping meetings, maybe dropping too much money on a watch. But now.

Well, there’s more on the table, now. 

He thinks.

Maybe.

“What?” Dylan asks, eager to end the misery of his speculation and just get it over with.

“I’m thinking.” Alex says, smirking.

Dylan doesn’t miss the way his eyes trace a slow, steady path all the way down Dylan’s body and then back up.

He smirks when Dylan shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Watches him squirm. Fuck, Dylan is hard.

“You’re going to have pancakes for breakfast, I think,” Alex says after a few more long moments. Dylan raises an eyebrow.

“You don’t like pancakes,” he says, taking a few steps toward the cupboard where the pancake mix is.

Alex shrugs. “I didn’t say I was going to have them. I said you were.”

Dylan doesn’t particularly feel like pancakes but he’s reaching into the cupboard anyway, pulling out a skillet and a mixing bowl, checking the fridge for maple syrup and milk and eggs.

If Alex thinks he should have pancakes, he can do that.

As he drops a dollop of butter into the hot pan, listens to it sizzle, he can sense Alex in the kitchen behind him. He’s watching Dylan from his stool at the kitchen island, sipping his coffee.

Realizing he hasn’t had any coffee himself, Dylan grabs a mug and reaches for the half-full pot of coffee Alex had made earlier, but he’s stopped up short by Alex’s voice before he can even touch it.

“No coffee, Dyl. It makes you jittery.”

“What the fuck,” Dylan says, because he can’t help it, and he thinks it’s time to test this… this… whatever _this_ is.

Alex blinks at him from the counter. Watches him. Waits him out.

“Fuck,” Dylan breaths, and sets the empty mug down a bit harder than he means to.

The way Alex beams at him is possibly making him even happier than the caffeine would have.

The rest of the morning passes by uneventfully, Alex making a smoothie and sipping it while sitting next to Dylan at the island. Dylan drowns his pancakes in syrup and hopes that the tons of sugar makes up for his lack of java. He’s gotta admit, the pancakes were a good idea.

He can’t quite wrap his brain around the way his leg brushes Alex’s where they sit on the stools. Is this normal? Is this usually how they sit? He can’t remember. He’s never paid attention to it so ardently. Even if they do, Dylan likes it a little bit more this morning.

And he really likes the way that, when he’s wrapped up in his scarf and coat and heading out the door to the rink, Alex says, “wait, here,” and presses a steaming travel mug of black coffee into his gloved hands.

++++++

Over the next few days, Dylan tries to wrap his head around all the ways Alex takes care of him. He’s always done it, is the thing.

And it’s different now, the orders, the… obeying, Dylan guesses, more blatant, but is it really?

Dylan has a memory full of, “don’t do that, you’re gonna get yourself killed”s and “nah, bro, she’s too clingy,”s. Late night phone calls from Chicago to Arizona of, “calm down, Stromer, it’s going to work out,” that had evened out his breathing and quieted his thoughts of inadequacy. Alex’s steady voice on the phone and in his head and in his heart.

Alex has got him. His knows that with his entire being. Trusts him implicitly.

That’s why he doesn’t mind doing the things Alex tells him to do. He knows Alex would never hurt him. He knows Alex will take care of him. He doesn’t mind listening. He likes it. He wants it, the safety there.

Because NHL hockey is like jumping without a safety net, and if, after your career is over, you crash to the ground, well, it was all worth it because the rush of the fall is _everything_.

And while there aren't many things Dylan is certain of, he’s absolutely sure that if his life is one long free fall, Alex will always be there to catch him at the bottom. 

++++++

It’s a few more days before Dylan loses the game of “don’t talk about it” chicken.

They’d come home from practice and dropped their bags at the door, Alex calling to Ralph and taking him out for a walk while Dylan tossed his coat over the back of a chair and started flicking lights on.

He’d come back a few moments later, kicking off his shoes and joining Dylan in the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to see if there was anything to grab for a snack.

“You should jump in the shower,” Alex says, pulling a beer out of the fridge and shutting the door.

Dylan frowns, watching Alex’s strong fingers grip the glass neck of the beer bottle. “I showered at the rink.”

“So shower again.” Alex says, popping the top off the bottle and taking a long pull. He stares Dylan down while he does it, and fuck. That's not playing fair.

“Why?” Dylan asks, because fuck, they need to talk about whatever is happening here.

“Because I told you to.” Alex says, firmly, his voice pitched lower than Dylan’s used to. It makes him fucking shiver. 

Damn it. He needs to be able to tell Alex that he wants…

Fuck, it’s Alex. Dylan knows he doesn’t have to be so worried about this. It’s _Alex_.

If you can’t say, “I want you to order me around but like, maybe sexually as well,” to your bro, really who else can you say it to?

“What are we doing?” Dylan blurts, because fuck it, rip off the bandaid. 

“I don’t know,” Alex breathes, like he’s defeated, giving in. “Fuck, Dylan, I don’t know…”

He sets the beer on the counter and steps into Dylan’s space. He brushes a hand up Dylan’s arm, raising goosebumps in his wake, settling hand on his collarbone.

Dylan think it’s probably meant to be reassuring, but it burns like fire wherever Alex touches him.

And then Alex _squeezes_ , gently but firmly, against the nape of Dylan’s neck, and for fuck’s sake, he’s done playing around.

“Alex, fuck, I want…” 

“Me too, I think? I mean, if you… what are you…” 

Dylan presses into Alex’s space in what he hopes is a good enough answer. He presses his face into Alex’s neck, clings onto him. He hopes Alex will get it, he doesn’t want to have to say it. 

“Dylan,” Alex’s words are muffled against his armful of Dylan, but he can hear the wonder in his voice. He can feel the way he clutches Dylan back. 

“I’ll shower,” Dylan says, instead of “I want you.” 

“No, it’s okay, you don’t have to. I just wanted to see if you would do it.” 

“I would have.” Dylan pulls back. He looks Alex straight in the eye, and this is it, right here, where Alex either gets it or he doesn’t. God, he hopes Alex gets it. 

Alex’s face is devastatingly sincere. Dylan loves him so much. Trusts him so much. 

“I know,” Alex says, and Dylan barely has time to process that before Alex is kissing him, firmly but slow, like he’s trying not to scare Dylan away. 

He’s not going anywhere, though, not a chance. Just to make sure Alex knows, Dylan kisses back harder. 

++++++ 

It’s hard to focus on anything, but Dylan is drawn to the way Alex is so focused as he snaps open the bottle of lube. 

The feel of his fingertips on Dylan’s shaft as he angles his cock towards him is the first touch Dylan’s felt in days, and fuck, it feels good. He lets his hips buck up a little, Alex hadn’t said he couldn’t, he thinks it’s probably safe. It doesn’t get him a firmer touch but it does get him a smile, so Dylan is counting it as a win. 

Alex brings the bottle of lube closer and Dylan is helpless to do anything but watch as Alex drips a liberal amount of lube straight onto the head of Dylan’s cock. 

Dylan hisses because it’s cold, and it tickles, the way it dribbles down his shaft. He’s expecting Alex to wrap his hand around him and stroke, to relieve the way it teases, but he doesn’t. He just holds Dylan’s cock steady with one hand as he recaps the bottle and tosses it to the bed with the other. 

“Want you nice and wet,” Alex says. 

“Yeah, alright, bud, I think you’ve got it,” Dylan breathes, squeezing his hands into fists around his bonds. 

“Breathe, bud,” Alex says, and Dylan barely manages to suck in a lungful of air before Alex’s fingertips are on the head of his cock, gentle and curious, swiping through the lube. 

Alex wraps his pointer finger around the tip of Dylan’s cock and swipes his thumb over the head. 

Dylan hisses involuntarily, thrashes off the bed, when he does it a second time, and then a third, thumb sweeping gently back and forth over Dylan’s sensitive tip. 

“Fuck, Alex, please”, Dylan squirms, “oh no oh no oh no.” 

Alex is frowning in concentration, watching the way Dylan’s muscle ripples under his skin as he yanks at the bonds. His hands are steady, one pressing down on Dylan’s hipbone, keeping him in place, and the other thumbing the head of Dylan’s cock, completely undoing him. 

Alex knows him better than anyone. 

Dylan is aware that Alex knows exactly what he needs and how much he can take. 

Alex knows, Dylan thinks with a shudder, that he can take hours more of this, until his voice is wrecked and raw with pleading and his entire body is so sensitive that Alex can wreck him with even the tiniest touch. 

“Do you want to come tonight, Dylan?” Alex asks, letting his hand stroke up and down Dylan’s erection, leisurely. He sets the pace. He’s in charge. 

“Please,” Dylan breaths, pushing up. Alex keeps his fist loose, the lube easing its way. “Please, Alex.” 

He lets go, bringing both of his hands to tease up and down the flat expanse of Dylan’s stomach. He avoids Dylan’s cock, hard and sensitive and straining, as he runs his fingers gently across the hair on Dylan’s lower belly. 

“Please,” Dylan says again, letting the word collapse into whimpers as Alex dips into his belly button. 

Alex hums, like he’s considering, as he reaches once more for Dylan’s cock and starts stroking in earnest. 

“I haven’t decided yet.” 

Dylan chokes out a moan as he’s stroked to the edge of an orgasm that he’s not sure will even come tonight, and then all at once, he lets himself stop thinking. 

Alex has got this. 


End file.
